


How to make the most of a theme party

by ChocoNut



Series: Modern JB love [68]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Blow Jobs, Cunnilingus, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Kilts, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Quickies, Self-Indulgent, Smut, The author had a dream, jealous brienne
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-15 13:42:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28814358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChocoNut/pseuds/ChocoNut
Summary: Jaime comes dressed in a kilt. And Brienne, of course, cannot handle it.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Series: Modern JB love [68]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1557871
Comments: 16
Kudos: 80





	How to make the most of a theme party

“You can’t handle it, can you?”

Brienne turns her frustration at her friend, regretting more than ever, her stupid decision to spend the evening like this. Theme parties, she hates—not just the compulsion of having to show up in a medieval gown in this swelteringly uncomfortable weather. Her eyes flicker over to her sexy roommate chatting up a busty blonde.

“You’re jealous some blonde stranger might get to figure out what’s underneath his _airy_ outfit tonight.”

Sansa’s blunt, but one hundred percent accurate remark only fuels the fire further, inviting another generous gulp of the drink that’s her only solace tonight. What bothers her more is her fixation with kilts. There’s something about them that sets her pulse racing whenever she spots a handsome man in one. _Airy,_ it must be, as Sansa chooses to put it, the question has crossed her mind, too. Do they wear something inside? Or do they go all guns blazing—

“I’m not jealous and I’m least bothered about what he’s wearing,” she snaps out of it, swatting the lavish images off her head. 

But her eyes wander back to the material hugging his perfect ass, and back again is the itch to discover, to fondle him, to take in his scent, to take him in her mouth. 

“You’re only short of drooling,” Sansa points out, amused. “You want to lift it up and get an eyeful of him. And you want to suck—” 

“Shut up!” 

But she knows she sounds far from convincing. And to take her mind off her erotic fantasies, she takes to mentally chastising the woman who’s hijacked him tonight. A drop-dead gorgeous guy like him—he surely wouldn’t settle for anything less than the eye-candy on his arm. Of course, she’d be dumb as hell, but that wouldn’t matter to him. 

But, a kilt? Really?

What gives him the idea he can just strut around the room showing himself off like a peacock to any and every female part of Margaery’s invitee list? If this is his way of seeking a date, it sucks bigtime. One shouldn’t have to dress sexily to attract a potential mate. This is just—

“He’s sexy as hell and you want him,” Sansa goes on, determined to drop one truth bomb after another. “You want him to smother you with his kisses, drive you mad with his—” 

“No, I don’t—”

“Simply sitting here and sulking isn’t gonna help, you know,” her friend advises. “Why don’t you get off this couch and go up there—”

She does, but not with the intention to disrupt her _friend’s_ pathetic attempt at flirting. Terrible, though he is at it, women somehow manage to fall for it, fluttering their lashes and swooning in his arms at just a charming smile. And this one—Brienne can’t help glare at her as she passes the happy couple oblivious of those around them—this one seems determined to get his hands all over her tonight, his mouth on her barely-hidden cleavage (fuck those old-fashioned dresses for that), his body pressed up against hers, his cock—

“Hey—” He turns to her in irritation when she jabs him in the back, accidentally, of course, because they’re blocking her way out of this torture.

“Sorry,” she mutters, quite unapologetically. Him answering her with the air of someone interrupted at something extremely pleasurable irks her more, and desiring no more than a change of surroundings—someplace that didn’t have Jaime and his soon-to-be lover, she slips away amidst the partying guests, out of there into the nearest door she meets—one of her hostess’ spare rooms.

Switching on the lights, she drops her handbag to the floor and leans against the wall to breathe normally, to get Jaime and his stupid kilt and what lies beneath out of her head. “I don’t want him. I—”

“Is that why you elbowed me on the way out of there?” 

He shuts the door—something she ought to have done before attracting this unwanted visitor and turns his complete attention to her. “Is that why you’re burning with jealousy, wench?”

“I’m just having a little—” she forces her brain into action, compels herself into a false normal “—headache.”

“A buxom blonde-shaped headache?” He grins, and gazing into her eyes, he considers it his right to invite himself into her personal space. “Admit it, Brienne. You couldn’t stand the sight of me talking to her.”

Her hormones are in a sorry state again. She wills her body not to react, makes an effort to stop her pesky mind from conjuring a vision of that ass, his cock hanging tantalisingly on the other side of the only layer of cloth separating it from her. Is he wearing an underwear or something or—

“You like what you see,” he drawls, the heat from his gaze burning her up. “You’re trying to figure out whether I’ve gone commando done there—” his voice descends to a deep rumble “—you’re aching to to find out if I’m hard for you, and up for a quick—” 

“I’m not one of those women ready to throw herself at you the moment you smile at her,” she resists, blood pumping like crazy in her veins, rushing to parts of her that need him like crazy. “Unlike that pretty babe you couldn’t keep your hands off.”

“Don’t I know that better than anyone else?” He edges his face to hers. “What I’m dying to know, though, is why you are staring if you’re not interested?”

 _I’m not,_ she means to defiantly deny, but the stream of sweat trickling down her neck and into the valley between her breasts jams her tongue. That his eyes are carefully tracing the path of the beads kissing their way along her bare skin leaves her with a dry throat and a hot desire for his skilled tongue to lap it off her. Heat and half-naked cleavage and an unbearable arousal—they’re definitely a bad combination to be hit with particularly when Jaime’s around. Logic tells her to get out of there and mingle with the crowd, or better still, head back home and pretend to fall asleep before he gets there, but her body challenges her to stay back and wait this out, to find out where this is going, to take this to the finish line.

“You’re staring, too,” she hoarsely tells him off, determined not to let him intimidate her. If this is a game, two can play it.

“Yeah,” he unabashedly admits, “and I like what I’m seeing.” He searches her eyes, waits for a reason to hold him back, but when she intends to give him none, he pins her shoulders to the wall. “As for _her_ out there—” he leans until their faces are so close she can feel his breath on her cheek “—don’t worry, I’m not interested.”

“What, then, are you interested in?” She can make it out from his body, yet, she wants to hear it. She knows, yet, she wants to know.

The intense green eyes flashed down to her lips, and then further down to the cleavage she’d never thought he’d notice when she’d walked into the party. His eyes come back up to hers for a moment, and in a perfect answer to her question, he captures her mouth.

She shudders, but only for a moment, and then she joins in, showing him how much she’s _interested_ , how badly she wants him. His body presses her up against the wall, holds her in an intimate imprisonment. He grinds into her, and she can feel him beneath the wool, all hard and proud, eager to tear through her dress, desperate to sear past her panties. That they’re just a few feet away from a crowd heightens the thrill of it, has her rushing up the ladder of arousal faster than she ever has, panting and gasping into his mouth, soaked and yearning for him fuck her senseless. 

Her arms around him, her fingers lost in his hair, she’s kissing him back as if this moment will never come again—this hunger in his throaty noises, the urgency in the way his hands take to her breasts, the animal aggression with which he pinches and prods her nipples, bringing them to aching points.

When he lets go of her mouth to suck the trail of sweat right down to her heaving breasts, when his coarse stubble paints every freckle crimson and leaves her burning all over, she can see what _exactly_ he’s interested in. When he kneels in front of her, she can feel her anticipation pulling her apart in ten different directions. She’s blushing like she’s never blushed before, she’s sweating and wet and aching with arousal, she needs him like she’s never needed anything before.

And she’s nervous as hell. Will he be up to this once he throws himself into it? Will he—

A laboured exhale, her doubts are expelled with, when he lifts her dress to caress her thigh. And suddenly, the people outside belong to a different world. She and Jaime—this is magic, this is a parallel realm that belongs to just the two of them. 

When he sighs deeply into her mound, when he peppers her sodden mass of hair with kisses, each of which are molten droplets of fire, when he mouths a wanton, _“You,”_ heatedly against her dripping folds, she crumbles.

When his fingers dig into her thighs, she arches into him with a soft cry and a plea for more, for all of him. “Jaime.”

Nothing makes sense in the world but the man who’s eager to pleasure her. Nothing but the way he tugs her panties down and plants his mouth where the soft cotton had been. He’s kissing, sucking, licking—slurping away her arousal. His tongue is on her clit, stroking and tasting, prodding and pushing, his rhythm slowly coming to par with that of the music blaring outside. This dance is leaving her dizzy, and she holds on to his shoulder, her other hand raking through his hair, pushing him in deeper, holding tightly to this madness she wishes would never end. She wants to stay grounded, but wants him to knock her senseless. Every nerve, every inch of her is now crying out for him, for him to ride with her down the path of lust, to dive into this hard and deep, blinding her, taking over her senses, her consciousness. 

Her right foot as firmly planted on the floor as she can, she lifts her left leg up and over his shoulder, giving in to his lush strokes, ready to cave in, bracing herself for the tide to come strike her and swallow her. “Oh yeah, right there,” she groans quietly, throwing her head back up against the wall, arching up as much as she can into his ravaging mouth. 

He’s rough, he’s strong and sexy, he knows what he’s doing, what buttons to press, and she—she shudders and squirms, her knees shaking with his assault, with the swish of his kilt with every move he makes. His hand joins in, cheeky and eager, and together with his mouth, it is all gluttonous swirls and furious stroking. Thumb on clit, he provokes the storm within her, gets her all hot and desperate, takes her to the edge, but before she can explode, he shoves her leg off his shoulder and jerks to his feet.

Again, he halts, eyes searching hers for reluctance. And again, when she offers none, he wheels her around and plunges into her.

“ _Oh my_ ,” she gasps, and when his hands cup her breasts, she slides down one of hers to feel her swollen clit. 

He goes in again, kissing her neck on his second thrust, his muffled grunt mating with her moan. Kilt or no, this is hot as hell. He goes in again. And again. She whimpers, pushes back, invites him back in. Her walls hug his girth, suck him in deeper, and he fucks her harder, his length pounding her just like she wants it, his heavy balls slapping her ass, his cock caressing every inch of her it meets.

His hand joins hers down to hers, and together, they wreak havoc on her again, matching pace with his blazing strokes, with the blaring beat outside. A strangled sound erupts from his throat when he tweaks her nub, when he buries his face in her neck. A thirsty, “ _Wench,_ ” his desire takes the shape of, when he massages her breast, pressing and squeezing, holding on and then letting go, coordinating perfectly with everything else he’s doing to her.

His thumb on her clit…

His palm kneading her breast, fingers tweaking her nipple with such intensity that it’s hard for her to breathe…

His wild thrusts, each a tremor that leaves her trembling from thighs to toes—

“Fuck, Jaime,” she cries, but he keeps going—swinging along with the music, dragging her down the road to ecstasy with him.

When the peppy number outside reaches its peak, he hoists her up to hers, with each rising note, taking her a step higher. He keeps her tied there, staying there with her for a few splendid seconds, thrusting harder, stroking and pinching—

Until she caves in, until she plummets down and—

_Gods, oh gods!_

It’s an explosion it’ll take her a while to recover from.

But he holds her from crashing away to bits. He keeps going—a few more strokes, he’s firing up, getting ready, and she’s right there with him, holding on to the wall, holding on to—

Without warning he withdraws.

And without warning, Brienne turns around and drops to her knees, inhales with flourish, what she has done to him. She fingers a vein all the way up his shaft, tracing delicately, his thick length. When she feels his thighs shudder, she licks her way up, lingers around his balls, cupping them, feeling their weight. She’s nuzzling him, torturing him, breathing onto him, leaving little kisses as she goes. When a groan tells her she’s tormented him enough, she takes his cock in both hands, begins an up and down rhythm on his shaft, letting the scent of his arousal ensnare her senses, the taste of him, the way he throbs away in her arms egging her on, driving him deeper into her welcoming mouth. 

As the beat outside begins to pick up again, so does he. He grabs her hair, moans and swears away in agony and delight, thrusts away like his life depends on it. The wool of his garment scraps her head in crisp, breezy _wooshes_ —its rhythm coinciding with her hungry mouth. 

She works her way in. And out. All over him from tips to balls until he cuts loose just like the frenzied piece of music out there.

_“Oh, Brienne!”_

Silence, it is, and even the music has tapered down, when they stumble back to their feet. But a far more peaceful one, it is, and she reaches for her handbag and draws out some tissues for them to clean up.

“We’ve got to go,” Brienne whispers, rearranging her dress, wondering how to go out there looking this flushed and freshly fucked. “They might be missing us.”

“Let them.” Jaime pulls her back, pins her to the wall to steal a kiss, to devour her in a way she can’t resist.

“On second thoughts, let's leave right now,” he pants, alternating between talking and kissing her, and she can feel her nipples rise to his need again. “Why don’t we slink away and get back home?”

Butterflies come swarming back to crowd her stomach again. “What do you propose?”

“It’s bloody hot in here.” Loosening his tie a bit, he leans in to press another kiss to her mouth. “So why not resort to something to heat things up further?”

**Author's Note:**

> This is what happens when NCW visits my dreams wearing a kilt.  
> Thank you for reading and I hope you liked it.


End file.
